The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... Page 2

  I picked up a second-hand copy of George Orwell’s “1984.” I read it years ago and remembered liking it. Do you read much, Grace? And what do you read? Patricia Cornwall or John Grisham? Perhaps a bit main-stream for you. I’d pick you for more of a Tom Robbins girl. There’s so much about you that I have to discover. I’m loving the journey. As I left the town hall behind and headed to the café, I saw you talking to another woman with little children and Harry waved at me. I gave him a little wave back. Did he tell you?

  I sat inside, taking a window seat and ordered a Latte. I watched you talking and laughing. I tried unsuccessfully to lip-read. I think I know that woman you were talking to. Hey, it’s a very small town so I know just about everyone. I can’t remember her name but I do know she’s a recently divorced single mother. She bought a house from us last year but I keep my nose out of that side of the office.

  Did you know her before you moved here or is she a new acquaintance? I guess it’s only natural for single mothers to gravitate toward each other. Comrades in arms, so to speak. I think couples, particularly the wives, feel threatened and insecure around an available woman, who has a job vacancy. Lover. Husband. And instant step-daddy. I’m afraid there’s not much in the way of eligible bachelors in town. I think - there’s me, a couple of gay men and the rest are geriatric widowers. There may be others but they are keeping a low profile. I think you would go for ‘quality’ in a man. I don’t think you are a gold-digger and I can’t see you falling for some trashy fellow just because he’s good looking. I am a loyal friend, I’m honest, reliable, neat and I don’t come with emotional baggage. I do have an ex but she’s been out of the picture for a long time and I’m completely free of her. Never give her a second thought. It’s as if she never existed. Can’t even remember her name. No – I am joking. Her name was Vickie the Vulture….she just hung around waiting for me to die so she could eat me. But I got free and stayed alive and uneaten. And I stand before you a happy, generous, committed man. I will make you the centre of my universe. All I do, will be for you.

  Hope you had a fabulous day at the markets and good luck tomorrow at Dr Death’s. I hope he doesn’t flirt with you. I wouldn’t like that at all.

  24/05/05 Monday

  Good morning sunshine,

  It’s a cool May day and you start your new job. You’d probably be up and getting ready. I wonder who will help you with child-care because the surgery is open until six and young Harry finishes school at three. I wouldn’t want the little chap to have to walk home and be there all alone. You must feel like a little girl on her first day of school. I know you’ll do really well. Your personality will endear you to all the patients. Warmth and openness are two of your strong points. By yourself you could heal the sick with a smile.

  I like the gap in your teeth. It’s sexy. Different. I hate Hollywood teeth. I hate people who strive to be physically perfect. We are all flawed and to pretend otherwise would be dishonest. All this plastic surgery and botox nonsense is ridiculous. Eat well. Exercise. I mean really, you are what…thirty-seven. You look great. You’ve got the beginning of small lines at the corners of your eyes and a bit of a frown line but you are just you. I don’t know if you dye your hair but I think not. It’s too beautiful a colour to come out of a bottle. Your breasts are real because I saw a bulge of nipple through your green blouse - there was no padded bra and I know they’re not silicone or whatever they use these days because fakes always look too round and high. Yours are what I would expect of someone your age with three kids. God that came out the wrong way. I meant it nicely though. You are a natural woman and I like that about you.

  My hair is thinning and because I keep it so short, I sometimes, particularly at a distance, appear to be bald. I like the look. Do you find me attractive, Grace? I’ve got a well-defined body, which you’d know if you ran your hands over my arms, down and back over my tight buttocks. Running keeps me in shape. I’m careful about what I eat. Lots of fruit and vegetables. I don’t smoke. I hope you don’t smoke. I find it a repulsive habit. Your skin is too good to be a smoker. I like my red wine too. A good Pinot Noir hits the spot and I have two cases of Californian Sangiovese that I am getting through slowly. It’s a top drop. I hope to introduce you to it some day.

  God, I’ve just looked at the time. I’m running late and no jog this morning. You are becoming something of a distraction, Miss Templar. I don’t mind one little bit, though.

  10:30 p.m.

  I saw your white Camry out the front of the surgery. You’d left your window half down. This may be a small town but don’t get complacent about security. There’s a Moorebank around every corner. Junkies. The Moorebank men are always drunk and their women, high and pregnant. You’re sure to come across them. They’re hard to miss. The cleaning contractors are still repairing the disaster area left in their wake. I saw one of the girls, Sandy, in the street today. She crossed the road and pretended not to see me. I couldn’t be bothered chasing her to give her a piece of my mind. It wouldn’t have been worth it.

  I looked up the sales files today and I found the name of the woman you were chatting to on the week-end. Jenny Wray. She’s in Highland Street, not far from my place. Have you met any one else in town, yet? It’s early days. You’ll soon know everyone in town, working for Dr Death. And I guess you’ll know more about them than the average Joe.

  You will be paying your rent to our office on Fridays. It’s Monday and I don’t know if I can wait that long to see you. I might just feel a bit off colour some time this week and come and say hi at the surgery.

  I’m going to the Small Business Awards night in Boowah tomorrow night. A tedious event but I got out of going last year and Ron wants all the staff there, except Belinda the receptionist, who incidentally is back at work. She doesn’t look very sick. I doubt she ever was. Probably just went on a mini holiday.

  The wind has picked up tonight. Your place is built in a kind of dip so you’ll probably feel it more than me. It’s howling. Does wild weather bother you? I love it. The power of nature is awe inspiring. Gale force winds and cracking good electrical storms are fairly common here at certain times of the year. You’ll probably feel the first winter. Most people only find that first one hard. Due to the town’s elevation, we usually get a fall of snow and then no-one goes to work outside of town as the roads out are too dangerous and the local kids all boycott school and spend the day making snow-men and throwing snow balls. By late afternoon it’s all brown slush!

  Hope you had a good day at work.

  26/05/05 Wednesday

  I didn’t write to you last night as I had that boring function to attend. I don’t think I’d ever realized how many self-inflated egos reside in these parts. Most of the thank-you speeches went something like this –“I’d like to thank me for being so wonderful.”

  Hardly surprising that our agency was overlooked. Every year Ron gets or pays someone to nominate us and he builds up delusional hope that he may have some honour bestowed upon him. But the truth is he is a shallow shark, he cheats on his wife, he runs the business abominably and he spends far more than he makes. Business was good last year but it’s dropped right off.

  Karen, our other salesperson, and I were making small talk and your name came up. I don’t remember how. I think we were discussing the high number of city folk doing the tree change. Anyway it appears that your eldest son Daniel is rather keen on her daughter Sofia. They travel together on the school bus and have a few classes together. I understand your young man is quite a musician. I think she said he played guitar and piano. Where does that stem from? Are you musical yourself, Grace? I love jazz. Can’t get enough of it. I fire up the stereo every afternoon while I prepare dinner. I guess you’re into …I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about that one.

  So it’s nice that your kids are fitting in so well. To have an almost girlfriend at sixteen, two days into a new school, is pretty impressive. Your family certainly packs a punch when it comes to making an impact o
n people.

  You are still leaving your window down. I know you’ve got the car parked directly out the front of the surgery so that you can keep an eye on it but I’m surprised a girl from Bondi is so relaxed about locking up her vehicle. I’m not harping. Just concerned.

  I spoke with you today on the phone. Definitely the highlight of my day. You’ve made me an appointment with the good doctor for midday tomorrow. You were obviously busy so our conversation was brief. Your voice is like cognac. Sweet and yet rich, warming and sends a tingle down my spine. You were sounding very efficient and professional. I’m sure you’re doing a great job there. Someone mentioned the new medical receptionist the other day, saying you seemed very nice after the last one who was a bit of a dragon, I gather. I smiled to myself proudly, knowing that I knew you so much better than anyone in town. Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. Perhaps from a past life. No. I don’t actually buy into that particular philosophy.

  I’m going for a run tonight before I eat, as I have to be up early for a staff meeting.

  See you tomorrow. I hope the surgery isn’t full of sick people. The coughing and spluttering and feverish children really do turn me off going to the doctor unless I absolutely must. And tomorrow is an absolute must for me. Because I need to see you up close again. I hope we get a bit more time to chat and get to know one another. I need you to notice me more. I need to lift my profile. You need to see how perfect we are for each other.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I love ya tomorrow, you’re only a day away!!!!

  27/05/05 Thursday

  I drove by and saw the lights beaming from your place last night and fought the urge to drop by and couldn’t wait to see you today. I slept very little. At least there was no wind so I didn’t have to listen to the wind-chime.

  It took forever to get to midday. The morning dragged like a lame leg.

  Later

  You’re a doll. Really. You have the sweetest smile and the most inviting eyes. They flash as if they are sparking whenever you laugh. Which appears to be a lot of the time. You have a great sense of humour. I noticed that you had a bit of a joke with nearly every person who came to your desk. You came out and helped Mrs Rundle into a seat and got her a glass of water. I’ve never seen such genuine compassion in a medical centre. Most of the time those places leave you with the distinct impression that patients are the enemy and the girl on the front desk is there to protect the doctors from them. It’s always impossible to get an appointment when you want one. Doctors never do home visits anymore and most are very happy to have you ring in for prescriptions that you can pick up from the desk at your convenience at which time the receptionist gets you to pay for the phone consultation. The vibe in your surgery was different. It was truly like a scene from a sit-com. Uplifting. And all because of you.

  We managed a lovely conversation about how well you are settling in. You looked stunning in pale blue today. You should wear that colour nearly all of the time. I couldn’t help but mention that I had noticed your car window down as I came in. You just shrugged and said you were a very trusting person. Caution, Grace. Never be too trusting because you open yourself up to all kinds of hurts. It is wonderful to trust but save it for those truly deserving of it and frankly, in my experience that is a gift that very few people earn.

  After I had filled in the personal detail chart,( because having been there only once before years ago my file had been archived), you looked it over, smiled and said-

  “Your name is Jack Michael. My husband’s name was Michael Jack. He passed away three years ago.”

  I was stunned into momentary silence. What an intimate thing to share with me.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” I lied although I sympathized with you for the pain you must have endured and the hardships you were faced with thereafter. But the reverse Christian names could not just have been coincidence. It was a sign.

  Dr Death and I touched briefly on you during my consultation and he told me that your husband’s death had been a high profile murder case. He did not elaborate.

  You need to understand that everything that happens in this mad life does so for a reason. Everything is connected. We all have one soul-mate, I believe. Just one. Most never find the other because we are scattered like confetti all over the world and blown about by the winds of fate.

  I am incredibly grateful to have had you flit down to alight upon my heart. Harsh as it might sound, Michael was not the one for you. He was just the dress rehearsal for me. His death was no accident. No random act of violence. It was part of the grand plan. He left space for me and you then moved to this little village, choosing my office to find you a home. It all fits perfectly. Our destiny has already been written.

  I pretended to have gut pains and the doctor gave me a plastic jar to collect a stool sample. I have no intention of doing such a thing. I’ll make a miraculous recovery overnight.

  I went back to work and saw you cross the road with the doctor and head into the Park Café, presumably for lunch. My pulse rate quickened and I felt constriction in my chest. On a rational level I know your relationship with him is professional. He is far too old for you. Actually, he’s about to be married so he’s probably safe. But the thought of you sharing a meal with him, or with any other man, makes me feel physically sick. It’s natural for a man to admire an attractive woman and I can’t help but think that the doctor might undress you with his eyes while he munches on a focaccia. I don’t want anyone but me to ever undress you – not even in their own mind.

  As soon as I returned home this afternoon I got onto the internet and googled Michael Templar. A wealth of sites leapt up at me. I read every one of them. It was a terrible tragedy. I’ll encapsulate. A thirty-five year old policeman from the Eastern suburbs of the city pulled over a car that was clearly unroadworthy with no number plate attached to the rear. As he approached the vehicle the driver pointed a revolver at him and shot him in the head, killing him instantly.

  In that instant your life took a dramatic change of course, didn’t it, Grace, you poor darling. I wish I had known you back then to help wipe your tears. No. It’s better that I meet you now when your pain has resided to a dull ache. You needed those years of solitude to strengthen you ready to love again. And to love properly.

  Two of the newspaper articles I read had photos of you. One of you with the boys, who look much younger, leaving the funeral. The other is an interview with you. You look strained but gorgeous. You sound so in control and calm and strong. I’m proud of the way you handled the media with grace and integrity. You were truly aptly named. Your parents were visionaries. I printed copies of the photos and will put them in frames. I would paste them into this journal but being my precious gift to you I don’t believe sad photos from the past have any place in these pages. You understand?

  Thanks for being so warm and friendly today. You’ve got my details on file so you know how old I am. Not too great a gap, is it? Six years. That’s a nice comfortable age difference. You know where I live and that I’m single.

  I’ll see you when you pop the rent in at some stage tomorrow. I just hope I’m in the office and not out showing a prospective tenant through a property. I have no tribunal hearings or routine inspections for at least the next week. So I’m sitting pretty much across the road from you all day, every day. So close and yet so far.

  28/05/05 Friday

  You didn’t show with the rent, Grace. I know you were at work because your car was parked over the road. The windows were up and the car appeared to be locked. Good girl. Better to be safe. I didn’t see you come out for lunch. The doctor and his fiancé went to the café again. You must have been snowed under with work. I waited late in the office, hoping to see you leave so I could bump into you.

  You walked out at 6:05 p.m. I set the alarm and hurried out.

  I called out a hello and you waved back. It’s only a narrow sort of main street so we could hear each other quite well.

  “I’m
rushing to pick Harry up,” you said as you fumbled with your key in the door giving the impression that you’d never actually locked your car. Ever.

  “Oh, where does he go after school?”

  “Jenny Wray. One of the mums from school takes him home. She feeds him dinner and gets him to do his homework with her daughter.”

  “Well that works out well for you. I know Jenny. She bought a house from us last year.”

  I nodded at you and got in my car. I didn’t mention the rent because it was too trivial and I might have appeared to be an ogre of a property manager. God knows there are a lot who pounce like a pit bull if the rent is a few days late. I give people a week before approaching the subject. Sometimes I feel like little more than a debt collector.

  At home I poured myself a glass of red and put a plate of leftovers in the microwave. And having just eaten, I am sitting here writing while simultaneously doing some research on the net. What’s your take on the internet? Hasn’t it just exploded into society like a bomb? I think it heralds the end of our civilization. When man becomes God, there’s nothing left to strive for so we just self-combust. I take advantage of the internet without letting it take advantage of me! I swear, if I was religious I’d think Bill Gates was the anti-christ. I’m not, therefore I know it’s the Pope. That was a lame sort of abstract joke.

  My research tells me that you made a television appearance on A Current Affair after your husband died. It’s been three years but I’m sure the television station would have a copy somewhere in the archives. I’m going to call them in the morning and ask about it. I’d love to have you on video so I could watch your mouth moving and your eyes blinking, anytime I wanted to.